


Now We Are Parted, Now We Are Grown

by zeldadestry



Category: Spider-Man 2
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-02
Updated: 2007-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:50:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t, though,” Harry says, when they’re done. “You don’t really want me. No one does. You used to need me, remember? When people at school gave you a hard time, I was the one who protected you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now We Are Parted, Now We Are Grown

He lets Harry slap him. He likes it. God, he wishes Harry would slap him again and again, until he falls.

Aunt May, Aunt May, his heart is breaking. How can he live if she never looks at him again, if she hates him, blames him? She has the right to blame him, he knows.

There’s pounding at the door. “Go away,” he shouts, throat hoarse.

“Pete, it’s me.”

Harry. He inches along, his back to the wall, closer and closer to the door. Should I let you in? Who are you Harry?

Are you a dime store Rimbaud? Is that who you are? Misunderstood brat with the melodramatic soul of a poet? Difficult to trust, always just one moment away from becoming an outright bastard? All of that, I can bear, the you I always knew. But are you dangerous like cancer, like all terror rampaging out of proportion, one cell of evil in you, a single impulse towards revenge, dividing and dividing and dividing until it overtakes your whole system? Is that who you are Harry?

Are you my friend, my only friend, the one who was by my side when I was a boy? Are we still boys, Harry, and what we do inconsequential in the end? Or are we men? If we are bound for heaven or for hell, is it because of all our actions, starting now? Have we forfeited our grace period?

Yes, we are grown and we must stand for all our sins. I never meant to hurt you. Never, ever, mean to hurt anyone. Lies. I’m lying. I wanted to hurt the man who cheated me, and because of that, Uncle Ben is dead. Don’t you see, Harry? I am a killer, but it’s not what you think. I didn’t kill your father. How can I make you believe it?

“Let me in, come on, Pete. I gotta talk to you.”

Opens the door, heart already pounding. Beautiful Harry, lounging in the door frame, lips parted, panting from running up the steps, and hair damp from the rain. “Are you going to hit me again? Come on. Hit me.” He’s taunting, he’s begging, he’s reaching out his hand to brush away the drops of water from Harry’s forehead.

“Do you want me to hit you?” Harry speaks so soft, his voice so low, and Peter knows he’s here with all double intentions, wanting to be friends, wanting to beat him down.

“Come inside,” he says. He doesn’t have to be Spider-Man. He doesn’t have to be anyone. He’s free to be here, now, and he reaches out his hand, tugs at the hem of Harry’s shirt.

Harry sees what is in Peter’s eyes, he smiles, his tongue wets his lips. He brings both hands to Peter’s face, just for a moment, just to touch him, look at him. “Pete,” he murmurs, like they know each other again, like the estrangement has vanished, right before he grabs him to pull him close, close as he can, wraps an arm around his waist and drops his head on Peter’s shoulder. His lips are cold against Peter’s neck, he’s shivering. Peter holds on, lends his own heat to his friend.

“You’re cold. You should borrow some of my clothes.”

Harry raises his face, presses his cheek against Peter’s. “You’re all I’ve got.”

“Let me get you some clothes.” He shrugs away from Harry’s embrace, gently as he can, but Harry’s eyes still narrow. Peter hands him a threadbare towel, searches through his drawers and finds baggy jeans and a t-shirt, a sweater with moth holes, boxers with the elastic in the waist giving out. It’s what he has and it’ll have to do.

When he turns back, Harry is stripped down, the towel around his waist. Peter drops the clothes on his bed, motions to them and then faces the windows with his eyes closed, knowing the skin he’s already seen will stay with him for months, an electricity just like his Spidey-sense, prickling up his spine. After a moment, Harry joins him, stands beside him.

“You shouldn’t stay here. This place is a shit-hole and you pay too much for it. You should come home with me.”

“I thought you liked living alone?”

“I have bad dreams.”

“I’m sorry.” He has bad dreams, too. But there’s nothing…he’ll always have bad dreams. Can’t save everyone. Can’t even try. He sleeps, goes to a movie, does his homework, stops for a slice of pizza for lunch, any of it, any moment, however brief and necessary, someone still needs him. He lives his life and people suffer. But there’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing…even with all his powers, he is still human.

“Fuck, I’d even stay here, if I could. Would you let me?”

“You’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know what I’m saying.”

“It’s late. You’re probably tired.”

“Yeah. I guess I should go.”

Pete stops him before he can take even one step towards the door. “You don’t have to go.”

Eyes closed, his eyes are closed, but he knows this is Harry, he knows Harry’s smell, underneath the cologne, he knows the heat of Harry’s body, he can feel it, the precise temperature of his skin. Harry’s cock is in his mouth. He wishes he could see, he wishes he could see Harry’s face, his face right now, but his eyes are closed, this is a dream. This is a dream, the groan when Harry comes, the hot salt taste of his come and Pete swallows like he wants it. He wants it. Harry’s softening dick slides from his mouth. Pete opens his eyes, looks up, but now Harry’s eyes are closed, maybe Harry’s pretending it’s all a dream. It’s all a dream.

MJ is beside him at the grave, her hand in his, softer than Harry’s, slightly cooler.

They’re putting Harry in the ground.

The bed is narrow and they lie side by side, pressed together underneath the covers. “I want you inside me,” Harry says. “Will you? Will you fuck me?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me?”

“Who wouldn’t want you?” Does he say it? It’s what he should say, it’s true.

“Pete.” Harry lifts his face for another kiss.

Harry is underneath him. He is fucking Harry and he didn’t know how much he could want this until it was right here, until he was doing it, getting off, and Harry pushes back against him.

“You don’t, though,” Harry says, when they’re done. “You don’t really want me. No one does. You used to need me, remember? When people at school gave you a hard time, I was the one who protected you.”

He is crying. Someone is pressing a handkerchief into his hand. It’s Aunt May, it’s MJ, he doesn’t know, they’re flanking him beside this hole in the earth. He’s been here before. Norman Osborne’s funeral. Uncle Ben’s.

“I’m sorry I hurt you. Say you’re sorry you hurt me.”

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Harry.”

“Don’t talk. When you talk you lie.”

“No lies. There were things I couldn’t tell you. But they don’t matter anymore.”

“Spider-man?”

“He doesn’t matter anymore. Don’t you read the papers? He’s gone.”

“For good?”

“Forever.” Aunt May’s face, when she leaves the table, he can never forget this, this one moment when he knows she does not love him. Yes, she loves him, but in this one moment, she hates him, he delivered all sorrow upon her, and she knows and she can not forgive and he will have to live with this at least until the end of his life and possibly beyond. Is there anything beyond? “You don’t have to worry about him ever again. I promise.”

“Don’t talk anymore. Just stay here, with me.”

They just go on, the prayers the hymns the speeches, interminable chatter in the background, buzz he can almost completely ignore. Overdose. Overdose. Overdose. The vultures have begun, Harry’s not even in the ground and they’re gossiping.

No. No. Harry’s not going into the ground.

“Pete, you’re shaking!” MJ whispers, puts both hands on him. “Pete? What’s wrong?”

Harry’s breath falters, there’s a long pause between one breath and the next, it falters and he comes, he’s coming, his body’s shaking, his body’s shaking. Was that how it was? Did he approach death the same way he did orgasm, like he was holding his breath, like he was scared of the obliteration? I wasn’t there, Harry. You died and you were all alone and I couldn’t save you.

His hand is on the gravestone, his touch is light, like this is an extension of Harry’s body. Harry is sleeping under this blanket of dirt and Pete doesn’t want to wake him. “I loved him,” he says.

“We all did.” Mary Jane is leaning against him. “I wish he could have understood that.”

He wants to tell her that he failed, that this is somehow his own fault, but he knows that because she loves him she’ll twist the story, she’ll always make him out to be the hero, always, never the villain, because that’s who he is to her, her hero. He can never, ever lose her. “I love you.”

“I know, tiger. I love you.” He is grateful for her kiss, her beautiful hair shining in the sun, the blush of her cheek underneath his fingertips, her hand on his back as they walk to the car, her gaze upon him at each red light as she drives them home.

What were you thinking of, Harry, do you remember?

Thinking?

When you, when you died.

It was like dying in my sleep, Pete. Like dying in a dream.

Harry, that’s good. That’s good. You were happy when you died?

I was dreaming of you.

You’re dreaming about me again.

No, buddy. I can’t. Not anymore. Never again. I don’t exist anymore, Pete, you know that. I’m gone. You’re dreaming of me.

Will you kiss me again, like you did then?

How did I kiss you?

Like you slapped me. Like you love me, hate me.

That’s right. You’re right.

You hate me.

I love you.

You love me.

I hate you.

You hate me.

I love you.

The underlying chorus, echo upon echo each new one erases the previous one, echoing back and forth in his dreams, in his dreamless sleep.  



End file.
